Chapter 2 #2
To my surprise, my father speaks neither of exile nor condescension.
Instead, he remains calm as he raises a hand.
His expression is unreadable, though stern.
The lines pressed into his face are from years of rule, so even his resting expression makes him appear perpetually agitated.
It dawns on me how infrequently I’ve seen my father, and how the timing of Xavelor’s coronation would’ve likely hastened his ascension to kingship.
My brother’s victories far outweigh our father’s, so it would’ve only been a matter of time before Xavelor sat on the throne.
King Azriel is undeniably ready to pass the crown on, or at least, he was .
Xavelor had been his most beloved triumph.
Now there’s no telling whether he’ll find another heir or if the Faundor line will die with him.
The room quiets, and all eyes fix on me and the aging king. The heat rises along my back, slowly soaking my thin clothing with sweat.
In a world where I’ve been encouraged to blend in, to act as though I were a shadow haunting the walls of the castle, I am not sure how I should react to so many expecting eyes angled down rectangular noses when they’re all trained on me—the ignoble offspring of a long-dead consort.
“Duke Perri,” the king growls, dark eyes flitting to the silver-haired noble seated next to him. The man folds a bluish-tinged hand over his chest in reverence. I narrow my eyes at the stains on his fingertips. “Your son. Has he returned?”
The duke stands, brushes his shirt courteously, and puffs out his chest. “Yes, Your Majesty. He and a few others. He’s returned with Prince Xavelor’s helm, because as you’re already aware,” he pauses, and the nobility around the room inhale sharply.
Murmurs of disbelief fade as he clears his throat. “There is no body to bury.”
If the room could grow any quieter, it does. A hush befalls each nasally captain and courtier. With Xavelor’s death fully addressed, melancholy bleeds from the walls, moistening the men’s cheeks with tears.
The duke seems the only one unperturbed. He’s always been strangely close with my father, not quite like a friend, but similar to an accomplice of some vile crime waiting to happen. It doesn’t surprise me that he knew of Xavelor’s death and the status of his body before the rest of us.
King Azriel doesn’t acknowledge the duke’s reveal, nor does he address the sniffling spreading contagiously.
Instead, he says, “Ramiel is my son by blood, even if he does not carry the blood of the late queen.” He surveys the room of mournful soldiers.
The men mutter their obligatory condolences: Queen Karmin, may she rest in peace.
When his gaze returns to me, it is the opposite of staring into the eyes of an equal; he demands an insufferable obedience before he speaks again.
“Xavelor is dead, and one of my own blood ought to replace him, as it is written in the Ariochan scrolls.” The energy in the room zings between us and all at once feels like it’s just him and me—a worthless prince who pales in comparison to his warrior father, the king.
I shrink further into my seat, wanting to do the one thing I’m decent at: disappearing.
But he doesn’t allow me this comfort. “ He is the next rightful heir to the throne.”
I blanch, then clamp my jaw before it falls open any wider.
Never have I ever heard such words uttered from the king’s mouth. Am I dreaming?
No, surely this would be a nightmare.
My limbs go cold. Maybe I’m the one who has died, and this is my reward. Recognition. Some obscure, nonsensical version of what I’ve always wanted—acceptance. A torture of my own invention, a cragged branch from my consciousness pleading to be snapped in two.
It’s frighteningly intoxicating.
“How does he plan on replacing Prince Xavelor, your Majesty?” the spectacled noble growls, voice filled with doubt.
I swallow the anxiety flooding over my tongue. The question of the hour permeates the air like poison.
The cruel nightmare unfolds into more shouts across the table, some aimed at me, and others at the king, whose face grows redder and redder and whose wrinkles worsen as his eyebrows tighten.
“Silence!” he commands. The yelling ceases, but murmuring offenses lull around the table like Arioch’s receding tides.
“We are in a time of war. With Xavelor gone, we have no choice but to find a warrior to replace him before my kingdom discovers his absence. Until then, we have to maintain a proper stalemate with Midra. Should anyone discover Xavelor’s death or Ramiel’s existence, the war front will move across the Valley to our soil.
I will not allow any of you to show such weakness.
Those who do can live out their final days in the dungeons below us. ”
The men grow quieter still, almost indistinguishable from the warm summer breeze playing with the trees outside, then wafts in through an open window and relaxes everyone around the table.
We all know my father is right, but none of us agree I’m the best choice for the job.
The king studies my expression. I don’t know what he sees, but I’m sure it’s far from what he wants to see. Still, his eyebrows stay flat over his dark eyes, and the lines of his face remain as they are. He’s unfazed by the combination of pure shock, fear, and humiliation blending over my face.
“Scribe, take note,” he grumbles to the boy scrunched over a small desk in the corner behind us. The servant jolts at this command, quill poised over parchment.
“Ramiel must find a master willing to teach him how to wield magic and a sword. He will have to prove himself worthy to take his brother’s rightful place, but he will not receive my help, nor the help of any at this table.
Nothing will be made easy for him, for at his age, he should prove his independence.
” His voice hardens at the end. Of course I wouldn’t receive the training I’ve always wanted as Xavelor did.
It had been his birthright as the son of the late queen to fight for damsels and drench his iron fingers in the black blood of dragons.
“How can you speak so plainly about the death of your true son?” I mutter bitterly.
My father turns to me, his expression darkening.
There’s a devilish glint in the slight movement of his eyes.
“Xavelor was expected to return victorious and make his first public appearance at the Feast of Undying. No one will know he has died, because you will stand in his place and defeat a dragon at the Feast. Only after this will you have earned his rightful title as the Crown Prince of Arioch.” He executes a glare that cuts the wagging tongues of whispering nobility.
“ No one is to speak of Xavelor’s death any sooner than the Feast, or after.
We shall have a private ceremony in a week to honor his life. ”
My brother’s likeness hasn’t graced the castle walls, nor have the peasant tradesmen with bristle brushes glimpsed his regal features.
His face has remained hidden since his enlistment, even from his own knights.
If I achieve victory at the Feast, not only will I become a true prince, but I may also get a portrait on the grand wall of past kings.
That is, if I can slay the unslayable.
Dragons are one of the toughest beasts to kill, and the Faundor line breeds them for the purpose of the Feast alone, which happens once every generation to declare a royal son, a pure-blooded Faundor son, the new crown prince.
The dragon raised for Xavelor’s exposition is sure to be strong—too strong for someone like me to survive.
I begin to object, but one of the men from the table does so before I’m able to utter a word.
“That gives him three months , Your Majesty! That’s suicide!
” His voice is filled with mockery and complaint rather than concern.
My father neither flinches nor rebukes his words.
They are true, after all. A prince with a lifetime of slicing through beasts doesn’t compare easily with a prince who is strictly well-versed in the arts.
“Three months,” King Azriel echoes, finally breaking his stony glare. His eyes relax. He must not have made this decision alone. He lowers his voice as he addresses me. “I suppose you ought to find a master soon, then.”
I gulp the spit that pools over my tongue.
As the group whispers among themselves, I know they’re planning to make it impossible for me to find a master.
Who would want to teach a prince who has no swordsmanship experience, magic-using history, or skills in martial arts?
Others my age have already become proficient in many of these elements, while I excel in science, literature, and history—all of which are considered useless in battles against dragons and other magical beasts.
My eyes wander to my father, but his thoughts must be somewhere else because his gaze is on the table.
Perhaps he’s thinking about who he’ll appoint to be king when I fail in three months.
Or maybe, just maybe, he’s thinking about how the kingdom will celebrate when they discover a new warrior prince in place of the infamous Xavelor Faundor.
I shake my head, and the king turns away.
“I will not wish you well,” he says. “As you are now, you are as disposable as your mother. Thirteen years ago today, was it, that she selfishly stole her own life?” The crowd murmurs, the air sizzling with heat.
He rarely speaks of the woman he threw away, of the woman who was dedicated to my betterment.
My chest rises and falls slowly, controlled. Concealing the rage at his blatant lie.
“So become something greater. Become Xavelor.” His mouth curls into a heinous sneer. “Become that which is impossible for you to become. Or die in the maw of the dragon bred for someone magnificent.”
My jaw tightens, hands grip the chair.
He wants this. He’s always wanted for me to be erased, except now he’s giving me the illusion of an option. He’s asking for me to take the bait.
And the worst part is, I want to.
A scream scratches at my throat, begging to be let loose. But I know he’s expecting this reaction, so I do everything I can to cool myself down, even as he continues weaving blasphemies into his words.
“If you can prove you aren’t as worthless as the dust gathering in her room,” he says with dripping malice, his lips lifting at the edges, “you’ll have your crown and your title.
” That glint I noticed before returns to his eyes, and this time I recognize it.
Understanding. It lasts a bit longer this time before it vanishes, leaving me confused once more.
“This would mean no more marriage arrangements. No more talk of leaving the kingdom. All of this,” his arms move subtly in gesture to the room and everything else beyond, “would be yours.”
A finality drifts from his words as he stands abruptly. The men jump to their feet and bow. Without hearing my response, he leaves the room, long furred robes dragging behind him. The door hammers shut, and the nobles mutter amongst themselves, sounding a bit afraid now.
I allow myself to seethe, cursing my own worthlessness. But my arms relax, the tension dissolving with the king’s leave.
I hate the fire that fuels my self-loathing, the utter disgust I feel toward my situation. I hate it because it stokes my desire to prove I have what it takes, so even someone like me can snatch the jeweled crown from his head and declare it as my own.
I know not the first thing about being a military king, but I do know I’d make a hell of a better father, so I consider the trade to be equal.
Before the rest of the men leave, I storm past them, smearing my bloody, splintered fingers over my ashen trousers. They can watch me with scorn, with disdain, with no expectations.
But in three months’ time, they’ll be groveling before me, begging for me to return their titles to them.
King Ramiel Faundor.
A smile ghosts over my lips as I blur down the grandiose hall of the castle’s public quarters. My father has successfully poisoned me with a desire I’d not known had been festering beneath the surface, but for now, I delight in the elation I feel at the thought of besting him.
Ramiel Faundor, King of Arioch .
I have never genuinely considered the title without sarcasm or hostility.
Until now.